I was fumbling towards the kitchen drawers in such a haste, but ever so quietly for the house was sleeping. I must say, i do not 'do' quiet so gracefully, so this in itself was a task, in sync with the one at hand. One, Two, Third, Fourth. Endless rows of endless drawers, upon endless thing-a-ma-bobs. Batteries, and bows, colorful clutter, that always finds its place in a home. Unwanted things thought to have some use at some given time, in some given future. Twisty ties, tape, and a $3 dollar bill; the last find did indeed arouse a chuckle. All the while thinking, 'Of all the things i can find and make such use of, how now is it this simple object eludes me!'
I shuffle through piles of paper, and discarded photographs my object of necessity could easily be hidden under. I find an old notebook, with not more than 3 pages of scribbling and pull it out.
Aha! Hm....No....thats not....is it... hm, purple, pink, this just will not do. Somewhere in the mess of marker colors, i spot a pencil.
Perfected in its utter blandness, and ever so temporary with its graphite tip; always fading, timelessly fading. Pure, and silky carbon, a dirty diamond. Because isn't it what makes us different, that makes us unique?
When i was 12, a girl stabbed me with a pencil on the steps at school. She stabbed me on the top of my right hand, only slightly drawing blood. I didn't say anything, i don't think i moved much at all. My hand felt cold to the touch, and i am almost sure at that moment i thought something awesomely awful was going to happen; that my hand might fall off, or my fingers would began to shrivel up and there would be some grand combustion following. None of this happened. I went to class and kept a good eye on the strange coldness and tingle. Today i have a small scar, that resembles that of a freckle. I haven't thought about that incident in quite some time. I'm almost certain that i deserved it.
So here i'm standing with the old notebook, and the pencil. I might add, that although i was in search of something a little more perminent, i was fully glad it was not one of those clicky pencils. There are just some things that dont need advancement. Dvds, iPods, sure. Clicky pencils are just, gaudy and annoying. Please, no more clicky pencils. Plus, there is something so rugged and ancient about the plain ones. It embodies original thought, and creativity. It is probably not the best option when writing a sacred document or something one plans on keeping 7 years or more, but i think thats what makes it so omnipotent. It is an extension of my brain, if only a temporary one.
'a letter lives on much longer than the passion that created it.'
I always think one must be much more careful in what they write to someone. Words fumble from mouths and dissapear into paper cups, and rainstorms.
Everything that i have, that was written with a pencil more than 3 or 4 years ago is almost indecipherable today. This fact about it, in some ways excludes it from the quote previously mentioned. Safe from the scrutiny of timelessness. I used to love to scribble on paper, till i saw pieces of graphite flaking off, till i had a deep shade of grey on the paper. Then i would take my fingers and lightly slide through its mark leaving uneven edges of even more shades of grey. Then i would take my fingers and make fingerprints all over the page.
I had really forgotten how great it felt to write. Pencil and paper write, i mean. Flowing, and shading. Un constricting unlike this little box im typing in. Oh, and how quickly i remembered how awful my handwriting was, but i suppose it is MY (hand)writing.
All this, and i only needed it to write this down:
'You see a man through the mirror of a woman, through the mirror of a man, you take one of those reflecting glasses away, it doesnt work. Man only works because you see him in contrast to the woman that he is. If you saw him without the her, he lives inside, he wouldn't seem a man at all.'
And yes, i just wrote a short essay on why pencils rule.
Thank you, and Goodnight.
I shuffle through piles of paper, and discarded photographs my object of necessity could easily be hidden under. I find an old notebook, with not more than 3 pages of scribbling and pull it out.
Aha! Hm....No....thats not....is it... hm, purple, pink, this just will not do. Somewhere in the mess of marker colors, i spot a pencil.
Perfected in its utter blandness, and ever so temporary with its graphite tip; always fading, timelessly fading. Pure, and silky carbon, a dirty diamond. Because isn't it what makes us different, that makes us unique?
When i was 12, a girl stabbed me with a pencil on the steps at school. She stabbed me on the top of my right hand, only slightly drawing blood. I didn't say anything, i don't think i moved much at all. My hand felt cold to the touch, and i am almost sure at that moment i thought something awesomely awful was going to happen; that my hand might fall off, or my fingers would began to shrivel up and there would be some grand combustion following. None of this happened. I went to class and kept a good eye on the strange coldness and tingle. Today i have a small scar, that resembles that of a freckle. I haven't thought about that incident in quite some time. I'm almost certain that i deserved it.
So here i'm standing with the old notebook, and the pencil. I might add, that although i was in search of something a little more perminent, i was fully glad it was not one of those clicky pencils. There are just some things that dont need advancement. Dvds, iPods, sure. Clicky pencils are just, gaudy and annoying. Please, no more clicky pencils. Plus, there is something so rugged and ancient about the plain ones. It embodies original thought, and creativity. It is probably not the best option when writing a sacred document or something one plans on keeping 7 years or more, but i think thats what makes it so omnipotent. It is an extension of my brain, if only a temporary one.
'a letter lives on much longer than the passion that created it.'
I always think one must be much more careful in what they write to someone. Words fumble from mouths and dissapear into paper cups, and rainstorms.
Everything that i have, that was written with a pencil more than 3 or 4 years ago is almost indecipherable today. This fact about it, in some ways excludes it from the quote previously mentioned. Safe from the scrutiny of timelessness. I used to love to scribble on paper, till i saw pieces of graphite flaking off, till i had a deep shade of grey on the paper. Then i would take my fingers and lightly slide through its mark leaving uneven edges of even more shades of grey. Then i would take my fingers and make fingerprints all over the page.
I had really forgotten how great it felt to write. Pencil and paper write, i mean. Flowing, and shading. Un constricting unlike this little box im typing in. Oh, and how quickly i remembered how awful my handwriting was, but i suppose it is MY (hand)writing.
All this, and i only needed it to write this down:
'You see a man through the mirror of a woman, through the mirror of a man, you take one of those reflecting glasses away, it doesnt work. Man only works because you see him in contrast to the woman that he is. If you saw him without the her, he lives inside, he wouldn't seem a man at all.'
And yes, i just wrote a short essay on why pencils rule.
Thank you, and Goodnight.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
In all the time that I've been with you I've never really been jealous for a second, but every time I hear about someone being mean to you or hurting you I always get very upset. I guess you'll have to take that as you will.
I like clicky pencils. I used to have one I used at work. It had a .9mm lead that was virtually indestructable and a HUUUUUUUUUGE eraser that was like 2" long that you twist the body of the pencil and it would come out. I protected that pencil with my life, but eventually, like everything else at this place eventually does, it came up missing. I need to buy another one of them. I loved that pencil.